


Always

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 06 Spoilers, crisis on earth x spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 22:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12898419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: SUMMARY:  Felicity and Oliver have some things to talk about when they get back to Star City. You know, once they can keep their hands off of each other long enough for things like talking.SPOILERS for Crisis on Earth X.





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> A Note About Nazis: I would like to take a moment to again express my disgust and frustration that the writers chose not only to use Nazis as a cheap "bad guy" villain-set in the crossover, but to do it so very poorly. I am still really goddamn conflicted about all of this, because I think a lot of the Oliver-Felicity stuff was done pretty well, as well as a lot of the character interactions, and my brain wants to play with all of that. But -- fucking NAZIS. Done so fucking poorly. It took days for me to be able to [semi-coherently air my grievances about their storytelling fail](https://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/168032774427/oliver-did-not-save-felicity-x-you-gave-us), and I'm still not sure how I feel about writing about the fluffy stuff and mostly ignoring the shittiness, but really the only thing I would write about from the terrible Nazi storyline is what happened to Felicity X. And I don't have the time to do the kind of research and world-building required to come close to doing that justice. 
> 
> *pointed glance in direction of the DCTV writers' rooms*
> 
> So, like, I guess here's a thing I wrote.

 

 

“Oliver,” Felicity protests reluctantly, because she only _half-_ means it, “we have to--”

He cuts her off with a kiss and rolls her half-beneath him. “All we have to do right now, “ he tells her with a smug arch of his eyebrow, “is each other.” And then he dives back into the whole kissing-her-senseless thing. Which, yes, she’s a fan. Big fan.

They’re naked and sated and she’s definitely not complaining about any of these things. They’ve been back in Starling for a couple hours, but instead of heading to Oliver’s to tell William and Thea and Raisa the big news, well... they got a little distracted. So they’ve spent those hours right here in this bed in the loft they used to share, consummating their marriage.

Like, a lot.

Three times, in fact.

And if the dirty, enthusiastic way Oliver is kissing her is any indication, he’s itching to go for four.

There’s a relieved giddiness in her chest -- there has been since Diggle pronounced them married -- and she laughs a little, even if that makes it hard to kiss him the way she wants to. She presses herself closer, arching into the familiar hardness of his chest, and tells herself she’ll stop kissing him in just another minute. Because it was a hellishly stressful weekend, to put it _very_ mildly, and they deserve this moment together to regroup.

They deserve to be warm and safe and laughing for a little bit longer. Except it’s nearly midnight and he needs to get home to William. Or maybe _they_ do, she realizes. Because if they’re married they’ll probably live together now. With William. Her stepson. Huh.

Sure, some of her stuff has migrated to their apartment over the past few weeks, and she spends the occasional night, but she hasn’t even considered moving in -- not while William is still adjusting. But wouldn’t it be weird for her to _not_ move in with her _husband_? What if the press found out and ran a story about the mayor’s estranged wife?

“Felicity?” Oliver prompts, sliding down a bit so he can nibble on her earlobe until she shivers, because he’s very good at identifying when she’s gotten lost in the whirlwind of her thoughts.

“Do you want me to move?” she asks, and, yes, maybe she’s fixating a little on one of the very many practical realities they haven’t even considered yet.

Oliver chuckles against her neck. “I always want you to move,” he tells her in that low sexy voice, “I love it when you’re on top.” Before she can correct his misunderstanding, he’s got those big strong arms wrapped around her and rolls them both. She ends up half-on top of him, and pauses to blow her very, _very_ messy hair out of her face.

“No,” she explains, then reconsiders the answer to what he thinks she’s saying. “I mean, _yes_ to your thing, obviously--”

“ _Your thing_ ,” he echos with a chuckle.

Felicity scoffs and shifts against him until he groans. “Not _that_ thing,” she says. “I mean -- move _in_. With you and William.” She can feel the torrent of words forming, all of the reasons why and why not accelerating dangerously, and presses her lips together to try to keep them at bay.

Oliver falls back a little, gazing up at her with that soft smile that melts her insides. He looks gorgeous against the bright purple patterned sheets in her bed, and she wants this always, every single night. “Yes,” he tells her. “I want my _wife_ to live in the same place as me.”

That giddy feeling is back, and she grins down at him. “ _Wife_ ,” she repeats. “And you’re my _husband_ .” She can hear the wonder in her own voice, but can’t seem to make it stop. _Oliver is her husband_. She’d been so afraid of changing anything, so scared things would unbalance and tip over and smash into a million heartbroken pieces like they did before, but this right here? This settled certainty is what she’d wanted.

Oliver’s smile widens until he’s practically glowing. “Nothing else I’d rather be,” he tells her, then leans up to kiss her. A few times. And nip at her bottom lip the way he does. Then he trails his lips down to her neck, and she’s _definitely_ going to have some marks to cover up tomorrow. His arms tighten around her, his big, warm palm sliding down her back. “I promise you won’t regret this, Felicity,” he murmurs against her collarbone, an edge of desperation in his tone.

It takes a moment for his words to penetrate her lusty-yet-exhausted haze. She blinks. “Regret?” she echoes, genuinely puzzled. “What would I regret?”

Oliver keeps his face pressed to her neck, and she leans into the familiar feel of his stubble. “Marrying me.”

Felicity stills, too stunned to speak immediately. “Oliver.” She shifts, trying to look him in the eye, but he is very stubbornly attached to her neck, nibbling and kissing and working on what’s sure to be a giant hickey, just in time for the news of their marriage to break and the paparazzi to be out in full force. Frak.

“I swear you won’t regret it,” Oliver says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince her of something she already knows with bone-deep certainty.

“Hey, hey.” She pushes on his chest until he grumbles and pulls back a bit, easing his grip so she can roll onto her side. She slips her leg in between his, presses her palm to his bicep, because she needs him to feel this. “I could never regret you.”

He grins, but there’s a shadow of _something_ that he’s trying to hide. “Good.” He leans in to kiss her.

She returns it for a moment, because they’re really just so good at kissing each other, then eases back, wriggling back a bit so they’re face to face without being nose to nose. “Oliver, why would you think--?”

“I know it was spur of the moment,” he interrupts in a rush, “and that you had your doubts about marrying me, but I promise I will be the best husband I can.”

Her heart aches for the doubt she’d unintentionally foisted on him when she’d panicked at Jitters. They really should’ve talked about this already, but in her defense, she’d been distracted by making sure Diggle got on the train -- he refused Barry’s offer of a quick trip back to Starling. And then they’d driven home on Oliver’s bike, which is not great for conversations. And also after spending three hours with her thighs wrapped around her _brand new husband,_ well, she wasn’t exactly in the talking mood when they reached the loft.

Well, Oliver would say she’s _always_ in a talking mood, and to be fair, she’s said _quite_ a lot to him over the past few hours, but “yes, there, more” and “harder” and “how does that feel” aren’t exactly the kinds of deep, emotional topics they clearly need to discuss.

“You already are the best husband,” she tells him, reaching up to cradle his face in the palm of her hand. She’s determined to erase all the wrong impressions she’d unwittingly given him. “Just by being you, you win that prize. And, Oliver, my hesitation was never about _you_ . It was about _losing_ you.”

He shakes his head minutely, giving her that adorably confused look. “I’d understand if you had doubts, Felicity.” Even now, when he’s convinced she might regret marrying him -- _as if_ \-- he’s running his hand along her side the way he knows comforts her. His heart is _so_ big and _so_ generous.

“I don’t have doubts.” It’s strange but true -- her creeping dread at the thought of engagement and what she’d assumed to be linked to an inevitable breakup is gone, replaced by an excited kind of nervousness over what comes next. She gets to tell the world she’s his wife. They’ll have to sign some papers, and maybe do boring things like meet with a financial planner. And they’ll _definitely_ have a party. All of that leaves her feeling bubbly and uncertain, but in a _good_ way.

 _Anticipation_ instead of anxiety.

But Oliver doesn’t believe her -- at least not fully. “You were pretty clear about your feelings Friday night, Felicity.” He’s trying so hard to keep his tone neutral, to respect her on this just the way she’d asked.

“I don’t have doubts about you, or about being with you forever, or about being _married_ to you, Oliver,” she tells him. And even in the middle of this serious discussion, she can’t fight back the grin when she says, “Can you believe we’re actually _married_?”

He matches her smile. “Wedded bliss,” he says, and it’s not an answer, but it is.

She has to kiss him, because of course she does. Then she pulls back and studies his face, eyeing the crinkle above his eye. “Hey,” she says, “sit up for a minute.”

That crinkle deepens as he frowns at her. “What? Why?”

“Just trust me,” she implores, untangling herself from him and pushing herself to sit up against the headboard. She waits until he matches her, then says, “Wait here.”

“Felicity, what--?”

“Just wait thirty seconds, Mr. Impatience,” she tosses back with a grin, sliding out of bed and walking over to the closet, pausing only to grab his discarded shirt from the floor and pull it on. The low groan he gives at that makes her laugh, and she really can’t believe how happy she is.

She feels _certain_ , in a way she hasn’t since before Damien Dahrk. She feels rock solid sure about him and about them, and she needs him to feel the same way. So she pulls her Oliver Box down from the shelf in the closet where it’s been for nearly two years and opens it. There are pictures and keepsakes, mostly from their time away that first summer together, but also some items from further back, like a QC coffee mug, the fingerless gloves he got her when she complained about how damp and chilly the original Arrow cave was. She takes a moment to squish the cork she’d saved from that ridiculously expensive bottle of wine they’d shared, then pulls the small jeweler’s bag free.

With a centering breath, she carries the Oliver Box out of the closet and sets it aside, because there’s no reason not to re-incorporate some of these mementos into her day to day life now that the sight of them doesn’t hurt. Then she hurries back to the bed, shivering a bit in the night air. He’s switched on the bedside lamp and is waiting for her with the rumpled sheets pulled aside for her to join him.

She climbs in, tugging the sheets over her lap before inching closer to him, turning to face him with the small, slightly frilly lavender bag in her hand. She can tell the exact moment he spots it by the way he freezes.

“Felicity?”

“That March we broke up,” she begins, and, yeah, it still hurts a little to think about that, but the pain has faded to a dull, manageable ache, “later, after what would have been our wedding--”

“Felicity,” he whispers, reaching for her, tangling his fingers with hers.

She takes a moment to kiss him, a wordless reassurance. “The jeweler called wondering what happened with these.” She lifts the bag a bit. That was a gut-punch of a phone call, and she’d had to explain -- yet again -- that they’d called the wedding off. Then she’d had to go pick up the rings anyway, and the resulting encounter with the flustered jeweler had included one _epic_ ramble about love and trust and the foundation of marriage.

“You kept the rings?” His eyes are wide with surprise as he looks between her and the drawstring bag sitting in the palm of her hand.

“Well, we had them engraved, so they weren’t really a returnable item,” she says, then winces when his face falls when he realizes she hadn’t had the option to refuse the rings. “But that’s not why I saved them,” she hurries to explain. Because that terrible day, she’d tucked the rings carefully into her bag, then stopped at the market on the way home for wine and ice cream in preparation for one hell of a bad evening.

But she’d never once considered getting rid of the rings.

Oliver does that tiny head shake of confusion. “Then why?”

Felicity hesitates, trying to figure out how to put it into words. She’s so good at saying so many things, but vocalizing her feelings has always been so scary. She’s out of practice, and she’s never been very good at it in the first place. But Oliver’s loving acceptance makes it easier. “Despite what I told you, I couldn’t ever really let you go,” she begins slowly. “I told you that night in the bunker that I still loved you. That has never changed. I don’t think it _could_ ever change.” She shrugs, then taps on her breastbone. “This hasn’t been mine in years, Oliver.”

Tugging on their linked hands, Oliver presses her palm to his bare chest. “This is yours,” he tells her. “Always.”

She nods, because she knows that now, really _believes_ it in a way she didn’t the first time around. “Right, and that’s what these say, remember?” They’d discussed what their rings should say -- the wedding date, each other’s names -- and settled on the single word _Always_.

“I remember,” Oliver tells her.

“Right, so,” Felicity continues, “when we fell apart, I had a hard time. I blamed myself for pushing you to come back here.”

“No, no,” he protests. “We would have ended up back here, I just wasn’t ready to acknowledge that yet.”

“Right, but we were fine when we were traveling, and we were fine in Ivy Town.”

Oliver quirks that damnable eyebrow at her. “You were miserable.”

“Overstatement,” she argues. “I was happy with _you_. Anyway, then my mother found the ring, and I basically bullied you into proposing--”

“You did not _bully_ me,” he interrupts with a little laugh.

“--and as soon as you did, some really bad things happened.” Felicity has to stop for a moment, because she can feel her throat tightening at the memory of that damn hospital room. The pain, the fear, the loneliness -- all of it had nearly drowned her those first few days, and even when she waded her way through the worst of it, that toxic mix never really left her. “That was a really tough time, Oliver, and not just the physical stuff. Emotionally, I was off-balance, and my demons reminded me that,” she can hear the tears threatening in her voice, but pushes through, “people _leave_ me. So I have to rely on myself.”

“Felicity.” Oliver leans closer, engulfing her in a hug. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him, the bag with their rings clenched tightly in her fist. “I’m so sorry you woke up alone in the hospital.”

“You already apologized for that,” she tells him.

“I was so focused on my own guilt and trying to make things right that I didn’t realize how it would feel for you to not have me there,” he tells her, and his voice is unsteady, too. “And then your dad showed back up, and you learned about William and that I’d lied about him the worst possible way.” He squeezes her more tightly.

Felicity is crying, but smiling, too, because he understands her in ways that few people ever has. He accepts her and he loves her despite her faults, despite her demons, just the way she loves all of him.

She loosens her hold so she can move back and meet his gaze. “Oliver, if we weren’t past all that already, I wouldn’t have proposed to you today. I wouldn’t have _married_ you. I’m just trying to explain that my hesitance was about all the stuff that got mixed up with our engagement in my brain. My associations were either painful or overly glittery.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “I’m not sad we didn’t have another round of glitterbomb invitations to anything,” he admits. “But I’m sorry your mom wasn’t there. And William and Thea."

Felicity is nodding as he speaks. “I agree with all of that, and you _have_ to know we owe them some kind of reception as an apology, right?”

“Right,” he agrees with a long-suffering sigh. “Can we tell your mother no glitter?”

She tips her head to the side and gives him a look. “Yes, let’s definitely tell my mom we got married without her and we’re going to have a reception to celebrate with her and everyone else we love that wasn’t at our wedding, but she’s not allowed to glitter it up.”

Oliver wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to tell her that.”

“Then brace yourself for the glitter.” Felicity shifts a little, reaching for his hand and pulling it into her lap. “So, Oliver, my demons were never about you, they were about all the stuff that happened when we were engaged. Does that make sense?” She frowns. “Well, I mean, I know it doesn’t actually make _logical_ sense, because irrational fears never do, or we’d probably have to give them a different name, but--”

“I understand,” Oliver interrupts, and he’s giving her the _gazing_ face again, and it’s really not fair the way he looks at her sometimes. She inches closer to him without realizing it.

“Do you really?” she presses. “Because I love you just as much as you love me.”

“Impossible,” he tells her, but he’s grinning now, and she knows her words have gotten through to him. “I love you _so_ much, Felicity.”

“I love you, too.” She kisses him quickly, then sits up and lifts the small jewelry bag between them. “So I have a question for you: Would it be weird to exchange these rings? We picked them out together, and for each other, but that was for our _old_ wedding, not our _actual_ wedding. And you know I can take or leave a lot of the traditions around all of this, but I kind of want something tangible to prove to myself that we really did this.” She looks up at him shyly. “Is that weird?”

Oliver’s face brightens further. “No, I think...” He stops, clears his throat, and when he speaks again his voice is lower. “I think that would be perfect.” He holds out his hand, wordlessly asking for the small bag, which she gives him.

It’s silly, because they’re already married and there’s no one here watching, but when Oliver shakes the smaller platinum band free and smiles down at it, she realizes her hands are shaking. Like a lot.

There’s something about this moment, the intimacy and the thoughtful affirmation of what was a snap decision that makes it feel more ceremonial than their actual wedding. Felicity is having some trouble seeing through the moisture pooling in her eyes.

Gently, Oliver takes her left hand, and slides the band that reads _Always_  onto her finger. “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,” he vows. He holds her gaze and lifts her hand up so he can kiss the ring he’d placed on her finger.

And, yeah, the tears are _definitely_ happening now. She swipes at her cheeks with her free hand and takes a deep, calming breath.

When she accepts the small bag from him, she takes a moment to admire the wedding ring shining on her finger, and, yeah, her hands are shaking like crazy. It takes her a minute to fish his ring out, and she makes a frustrated little noise that gets a laugh out of Oliver.

They exchange amused smiles before she holds his ring up and reaches for him. She’s more than a little gratified to see the tremor in his hand when he offers it up to her. His ring goes on over the knuckle, but it takes a little bit of force, and she looks up at him worriedly. “Did that hurt?”

“No, it’s perfect,” he tells her, flexing his fingers a bit and grinning down at the band on his finger.

When he tries to pull his hand away, she grabs it in both of hers and hangs on. “I am my beloved’s,” she echoes his vow in a shaky voice, “and my beloved is mine.” She dips forward and kisses his hand.

Oliver lets out a ragged noise. “Felicity.” He moves so quickly she misses most of it, but suddenly they’re kneeling upright in this bed and he’s beaming down at her. He wraps his arms around her waist and leans in, kissing her softly, reverently. “My beautiful wife.”

She beams up at him, slipping her hands down his back, trailing over his impossibly warm skin. “My beautiful husband.” When her hands slip lower and reach the swell of his tremendous ass, she remembers, quite suddenly, that Oliver is naked. Her eyebrows lift. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, shifting them, and it really shouldn’t be so hot the way he can just move her around like this. But it is, and when he lowers himself to the bed and pulls her down on top of him, she’s already leaning in for more kisses. Because they're  _married_ and he's gorgeous and enthusiastic beneath her, and she's just really, really happy.

Oliver’s hand inches down, squeezing her ass before skimming up her back, taking his henley with it, and, yeah, round four is definitely a go, except--

“Oliver,” she gasps, a last ditch effort to get them home before midnight, “we have to go.”

“Later,” he mutters, pulling her thigh against his. “We’ll go home later.”

And since compromise is the key to any successful marriage, Felicity shifts a bit so she can straddle him and smiles when he moans. “Good plan.”

 

THE END


End file.
